


Like Steel, Like Glass

by charybdis



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, N Things, POV Second Person, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-17
Updated: 2010-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charybdis/pseuds/charybdis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Eames had to kill someone, and one time he did because he wanted to.  Or maybe it's just six times he had to kill someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Steel, Like Glass

**ONE**  
The second time Eames kills someone in real life, he's in the middle of an ill-planned theft, the goods in one hand and a silenced pistol in the other.

The unfortunate guard's exit wound glistens exciting shades of fluid and bone under the blue-white glare of the garden lights.

Eames is twenty-two. He waits until he gets back to his flat to be violently sick -- spends the rest of the night with his forehead pressed to cool porcelain while his body tries to expurgate his guilt and comes up empty, every time.

It's the second time he's ever killed someone in real life. It's the first time he loses any sleep over it.

 

**TWO**  
Eames learned to slit throats from a professional -- head just a touch forward to keep the trachea out of the way of the blade, cut down and away to minimize blood spatter.

He's still wearing a petite blonde when he does it for his extractor. The body slumps in a rapidly expanding pool of blood by the open safe, and Eames smashes through the twelfth-floor window, leaving behind a baffling murder-suicide for the mark's subconscious to puzzle over.

 

**THREE**  
The more projections that are killed, the sooner the dreamer's subconscious catches on. Kill too many, and suddenly you're knee-deep in irate projections before you can turn around.

Eames has found that it helps if you keep the deaths quiet and clean.

A dozen guards are down before anyone raises a cry. Rifle sight cold against his cheek, Eames smiles and lines up a thirteenth shot.

 

**FOUR**  
Never again is he going to agree to a job like this. No matter how many kidnapped victims it might save, forging a perfect partner for a serial murderer isn't something he can do more than once.

The mark's eyes glitter as Eames picks up the corkscrew in her thin, long-fingered hands and turns to the kid.

It's only a projection.

It's only the second time Eames has ever been sick after killing someone.

 

**FIVE**  
The kid he's forging is fifteen and far too much like the boy Eames remembers being. Even if, at fifteen, he was never this proficient at rigging explosives, never this adept at identifying load-bearing walls, or programming simple triggers.

Two fields over, the sprawling country home goes up with a roaring rush of flame, and the projections come running.

Eames catches sight of the mark bolting towards the work shed as best she can in heels, clutching a black patent case to her chest and calling out a name, frantic with concern.

He touches the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans, settles a little deeper into a skin that he outgrew years ago, and waits patiently for his mother to find him.

 

**one**  
If there's one thing you're good at, it's handling people, but even that's something you learned the hard way.

You learned from being four years old and finding that a certain look means to keep well away or risk being kicked. Being eight and knowing the exact tone of voice to garner sympathy or convince an adult that you're fine, fine, fine, make their eyes slipslide over the bruises that your clothes can't always cover. Being twelve and so terrified that it takes you an entire fucking month to pinpoint the exact look that has you sliding away, finding brand new security in such mundane places as the interstices between a shelf and a wall, a bed and the floor.

So it goes. You learn quickly and you rarely ever forget anything.

Eventually, you're sixteen and you're sick of this shit. There's a gun in your hand and you know what to do with it, have been dreaming of this moment for years.

The gun kicks, the wound blooms perfect and clean across his face, and maybe you smile just a bit. You're a natural.

The door is open and you walk right out. You don't know how to regret killing a monster.

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/5987.html?thread=8626531#t8626531) on the inception kink meme.


End file.
